Page 47 of Forbidden Bride (Forbidden 1)
KARINA
Sneaking backin is easier than I expected.
The hard part is over. Security didn’t tackle me to the ground as I dropped out of the oak tree and scurried across the yard, and nobody intercepted me when I slipped in through the squeaky side door. Success! But I’m so elated from my time with Marco—despite the sting of the fresh tattoo—that I have to force myself to focus on moving as slowly and silently as possible once I’m back inside. The sun hasn’t yet begun to rise, but birds are chirping, signaling it will be daylight soon.
Now I just have to get back in bed before anyone realizes I was gone.
Fully expecting the guard to be posted and alert outside my bedroom door, I stop off in the laundry room on the first floor and peel off my clothes, stuffing them into a hamper and quickly pulling on a pair of dirty pajamas. Then I get a glass of water from the kitchen and boldly pad up the front stairs. My plan is to tell my guard that I went down to the library with a bout of wedding anxiety hours ago and then accidentally fell asleep on the couch in there. Since he’s the one who abandoned his post last night, I figure he’ll be more interested in covering his own ass than in questioning my story or reporting my temporary absence to my uncle.
But when I peer down the hall toward my room, I don’t see anyone standing outside my door.
What the hell? Has the guard been gone this entire time? Or is he somewhere else in the house looking for me? What if he’s already gone to tell my uncle that I’m missing?
Shit.
On tiptoes, I hurry toward my room.
Unfortunately, it’s too late to turn back by the time I see the soft glow coming from the lamp on my bed table and get hit with the scent of overpowering cologne.
The guards are on me the second they hear my footsteps, and they burst over the threshold to grab me by my upper arms.
Razors of fear assault my scalp and spine, my heart hammering in my chest.
I’m caught.
“Ms. Rossi, your uncle is looking for you,” one of them says coldly.
Lifting my chin, I let the men march me down the hall and toward the stairs. The guard on my right—the one who failed to prevent me from sneaking out earlier—is gripping my arm unreasonably hard, so tight that I worry I’ll have a bruise later. I’m sure my uncle has already reamed him out royally for allowing me to give him the slip.
As we ascend to the third floor, I try to calm my breathing. Below the waistband of my pajama pants, I can feel my new tattoo burning under its gauze bandage, but I’m heartened by the fact that it’s there. Thank God my uncle won’t know to look for it. I couldn’t bear having his cruel gaze rake over my secret symbol of Marco’s love. Uncle Sergio’s eyes would tarnish it somehow. He doesn’t get to own this part of me.
We stop short outside the door to my uncle’s private office, and my insides quiver. Nothing good happens in that office, and as I’m forced inside, a dizzying wave of fear overtakes me. The hidden door in the bookcase is wide open, nothing but darkness pouring from the secret room that’s inside…
I’ve been in that room once before. Just once.
I’ll never forget it.
I was nine years old. My uncle ordered that I be locked inside for twenty-four hours after I stole a pastry off a platter intended for guests. I had to learn respect, he said, and to understand my place. I had to learn to never take what wasn’t offered to me first.
I was given water but no food, had no human contact, and was left with a pile of newspapers laid out on the floor in lieu of a bathroom. The room has no windows, and I was left without a single source of light. I’ve hated pitch darkness ever since.
“Bring her in,” my uncle calls from inside the office.
The guards drag me forward, and I see Uncle Sergio sitting behind his desk with an unlit cigar in his mouth. He doesn’t look at me, just nods toward the open door behind him and continues working on his computer. Clenching my eyes, I don’t fight or protest as I’m pushed inside the black padded room. My shoes squeak on the soundproof material on the floor as I stumble, catching myself with a hand on the plush wall. The light slowly fades as the door closes…slowly robbing the brightness from the room until it’s completely gone.
A lock turns.
All sound disappears.
Blackness consumes me as I sink to the floor and focus on the pain in my hip—that beautiful, wonderful reminder that no one can ever take Marco away from me.
Time doesn’t really pass in this room. It stands still. At some point I actually doze off, owing more to the fact that I never went to sleep last night rather than any kind of relaxation. When I wake up, my neck aches from the awkward position I curled into. My head pounds—I need coffee. It must be afternoon by now. But there’s no way to tell for sure.
I’ve heard the guards talk about this room. It’s not just for isolation punishments. The air circulation can be turned off and the heat turned up, essentially suffocating whoever is inside. Bright lights can be left on, music played loud, the temperature dropped low to cause sleep deprivation, or darkness can live eternal. No matter what happens in here, nothing can be heard on the outside.
It’s a torture chamber.
Over the years, I’ve tried not to think too much about why my uncle had this room built, or who else might have been subject to its torment. Nobody deserves such treatment, regardless of the crime.
A single light pops on above my head, practically blinding me. I’ve moved to a sitting position against the wall with my arms around my drawn-up knees and I stay this way, squinting my eyes against the sudden brightness. I’m not moving until I have to.
My uncle’s voice comes over the hidden intercom. “Did you enjoy your little rendezvous in the early morning hours, Karina? The infrared cameras caught you leaving the grounds, you stupid girl. Did you really think you wouldn’t get caught?”
I say nothing.
The intercom squeals before he speaks again. “You will give me the name of this young man. You cannot be trusted, so I have no choice but to take care of this myself.”
Fuck. Did the cameras also pick up Marco’s car down at the end of the street? Could it zoom far enough to detect the license plate? What if I’ve just put him in danger, too? Chewing my lip, I wince at the thought of my uncle’s goons storming the Bellanti property.
“Karina Rossi, give me the name. Now.”
His voice is scary calm, and it sends a shiver of trepidation down my spine. I can’t stay silent, or his fury will know no end.
“I told you his name already. Antonio. He’s nobody, just a tourist visiting Napa for the summer. We met at the track. He takes me dancing. It was just a distraction for my wedding nerves at first, but then…he was all I could think about.”
“A nobody, you say?” There’s a pause. “And where is this nobody staying?”
“I never went to his hotel. But it doesn’t matter. He’s flying back to Naples with his family today,” I lie. “He’s gone…forever. I’ll never get to see him again!”
And then I start to cry. Antonio might not be real, but my grief over being separated from Marco is, and I tap into the pain of that to give my sob story a veneer of legitimate emotion.
“Naples?” my uncle prods, ignoring my tears.
“Yes. He’s not a threat. He never was.” I let loose another pathetic whimper. “I’m marrying Pietro, Uncle, just as you said I should. I know you know what’s best, and I’m sorry. But I’ve never been in love before.”
Placate. Praise. Apologize. The three rules of surviving my family.
“All this talk of love again,” my uncle scoffs, sounding disgusted with me.
